


phrase (praise)

by neyvenger (jjjat3am)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: FC Barcelona, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 12:07:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6955894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/neyvenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marc Bartra and the art of saying goodbye</p>
            </blockquote>





	phrase (praise)

**Author's Note:**

> Feed by the rumor that Marc was thinking of leaving this transfer season and also the fact that he was the last one to leave the grass after the double celebrations last night.
> 
> Unbetaed.

 

 

 

Gerard catches him round the waist mid-celebration. Things feel unreal, hazy, a blur of confetti and joyous screaming and the music pounding from the bus speakers. The pressure of Geri’s hands feels good, grounding. Marc doesn’t know where they are exactly, even if these are the streets he grew up on. 

 

(he doesn’t know if the  _ blaugrana _ draped over every signpost makes them more familiar, or less)

 

Gerard presses his lips to his ear, smelling like sweat and alcohol, and Marc sways into him, tucking his smile into the rough scruff of his neck.

 

“We won!” Gerard shouts in his ear, too loud and jubilant. “Marc, we won!” 

 

“I’m leaving this summer,” he whispers into the skin of Gerard’s neck, feeling the cold truth of it lend a hard edge to the joy in his veins.

 

Gerard doesn’t seem to hear him, but the arms around him tighten, caging his torso until it becomes almost too hard to breathe.

 

It feels alright. Marc closes his eyes and lets himself be swept along.

  
  


*

  
  


The cup stands at his feet, gleaming and majestic. Marc always forgets how big they are, the trophies, how small they look when handled by the arms of his teammates, but how they seem to dwarf him when he lifts them.

 

The cold shine of the metal is marred by kisses and fingertips pressed to its surface, and his reflection in it is distorted. He looks down into the curve of it, wonders how much beer and champagne had washed it clean of last year’s dust.

 

(wonders if he can quantify the minutes he played to earn it in the miniscule dampness on the bottom. wonders if there’ll be any left if he reaches down to clean it with his fingertips. 

 

wonders if he’ll get any of them back.)

 

“Marc,” Melissa touches his elbow gently, hands him Gala to hold, and he smiles automatically at her big blue eyes and flailing limbs.

 

Her weight is comfortable in his arms as he crouches down to the trophy and catches the photographer’s eye to give him a nod.

  
  


*

  
  


Rafinha almost walks into him, stopping abruptly when he notes the sleepy bundle in his arms, where he would have otherwise kept moving, walking right into Marc’s body to wrap himself against him. 

 

(that was La Masia though. Marc has a kid now. and Rafa has a new contract and no Thiago at his elbow.)

 

Marc can tell he’s just come from teasing Neymar, the mischief lurking in the corners of his eyes, but Rafinha’s grin melts into something softer when he steps up to look at Gala. He reaches out to comb the soft hairs on top of her head and Marc watches the motion placidly, smiling when she blinks at Rafa in turn as if she doesn’t know exactly what to make of him.

 

“I hear you’re leaving.”

 

Marc doesn’t raise his gaze from his daughter’s sleepy face, doesn’t let himself analyze the inflections in Rafa’s tone. 

 

Gerard must have heard him, on the bus.

 

Finally, he just shrugs, smiles at Rafa’s worried face and says, “You’ll always be her uncle.”

 

It feels like the truth.

  
  


*

  
  


Marc sings Gala to sleep in Catalan, murmurs in half-forgotten lullabies, until her eyes slip shut and her breathing evens out. Melissa never tells him to stop, even though his voice has always been atrocious.

 

Sometimes he sings her  _ El cant del Barca _ instead, more familiar to him than any lullabye, and he’ll catch Melissa watching them with an expression he can’t decipher.

 

(He thinks it’s pity, maybe.)

  
  


*

  
  


He’d talked it over with Andres before making a decision. They’d opened up a bottle of Andres’s best wine, sprawled against the leather couch in his living room.

 

Andres had listened seriously as the words tumbled out of Marc’s mouth gracelessly, too quick, as if glad to be loose from the confines of his chest, running away from the guilt that fought to choke them down.

 

There was a long silence, once he finished. Andres’s face was unreadable while he considered him and Marc swallowed heavily, but refused to look away.

 

(he could have gone to Xavi with this and wouldn’t have been able to endure his intense gaze. he could have gone to Puyi and they would have argued. 

 

it was best like this, with Andres and his measured silence.)

 

“You deserve good things, Marc,” Andres finally broke his silence. “You’ve served this club for years, with very little recognition. If you leave, no one has the right to stop you or condemn you.”

 

And Marc had nodded, decisively, and taken another sip of his wine. He thought about asking if Andres was ever in this position, if he’d ever considered a similar decision. 

 

But there’s Barca memorabilia hung on every wall he sees and the color scheme to match. When Marc was a little bit younger, he’d thought Andres’s pool was the coolest thing he’d ever seen. Above Andres’s head he can see a younger version receive congratulations from Pep Guardiola.

 

Andres and his quiet shining brilliance, his measured patient silences, is perhaps closest to the essence of FC Barcelona than anyone he’s ever met. 

 

Marc has only ever been Marc, and so his decision must be his own.

  
  


*

  
  


Marc’s the last one off the grass after the celebrations.

 

A part of him admits that he doesn’t want to leave just yet, the grass soft and welcoming under his feet. He stops at center circle, watching the stands rise to the sky like the walls of a cathedral, the floodlights reflecting off the metal and chrome and skin. Camp Nou is still over half full, the fans unwilling to let go of their celebrations, their voices raised in familiar chants, a wall of  _ blaugrana _ , a wall of joy.

 

Everything about it feels right, from the solid grass under his feet, to the sharp vowels of Catalan filling the air, to the crest layered over his heart like a brand. His heart beats in his chest, like a jackhammer, like a full 90 minutes. 

 

Everything about it feels right, and yet. 

 

(And yet.)

 

Marc lets his eyes slip closed, lets the voices of his people fill his chest to the brim with their history, with their unwavering belief. He lets himself believe, just for a moment, that he hears his name in the cacophony of sound. 

 

Then, he opens his eyes, turns and walks the familiar path one last time. The last time it counts.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Notes:  
> \- I don't think Marc and Rafinha actually ever played together, because there's too much of an age difference. But Marc did play with Thiago quite often, and the Alcantaras were never really that far apart in those days  
> \- Andres's pool is shaped like the Barca crest  
> -is he really leaving? possibly. we'll see. I hope not.  
> \- [tumblr](https://neyvenger.tumblr.com/)


End file.
